I Can Still Recall
by ROGfan
Summary: He can still remember the day he almost told Rose he loved her. The memory, like most of the ones he has of her, is bitter-sweet.


Disclaimer: Not Mine.

Spoilers: Set during Season Four, at an unspecified point past _Planet of the Ood_.

* * *

"I can still remember," the Doctor said to Donna in the wistful, melancholy tone of voice he always seemed to use these days when he was thinking or talking about Rose, "the day I almost told Rose I loved her."

"Only almost?" Donna teased.

"Watch it, you!"

"Just asking!"

He gave Donna a lop-sided grin before continuing.

"It had only been a month or so after I'd regenerated. I wasn't sure, wasn't confident about how she felt about me, then; wasn't sure she'd quite become used to skinny old me. It's a steep learning curve, regeneration."

"Regeneration?"

He waved his hands in the air dismissively, fidgeting; regeneration was _not_ an issue he wanted to talk about just now.

"I'll tell you later. Anyway, apparently I said something that offended the people whose planet we were on. Can't remember the name of the place off-hand; something to do with fish, I think. Funny, the things that stick in the memory, isn't it? I had a right gob on me at the time and hadn't learned to rein it in ye— what's so _funny_?"

He could see Donna struggling to stop laughing. He wasn't pleased.

"The idea of you ever managing to get control over that mouth of yours, mate. One of these days it's going to get you into more trouble than you'll be able to handle."

"Pffft. As if _that_ could ever happen. Time Lord, me; and don't you forget it! Anyway – do you want me to tell you this or not?"

"Sorry," Donna said, sounding anything but. "Carry on."

"Right then. As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," he heard Donna snort with laughter but chose to ignore it, "we'd ended up having to run for our lives again. Strange how often I end up having to do that; I'm beginning to think people don't like me."

"I can't imagine how that could be," Donna said. He looked sharply at her, but she was smiling innocently at him.

He really _was_ starting to get paranoid in his old age.

"I'd started the dematerialisation sequence to get us out of there – I'd not said anything _that_ insulting, I don't know what their problem was. Nothing a decent sense of humour wouldn't sort – and Rose was obviously tired, so I said to her why didn't she go and have a lie down and I'd be along in a bit with tea and cake and we could chat or whatever. You know, like you and I do after we've had a run in with something or other."

Donna nodded, smiling. And, watching her, he thought to himself that although he now did most of the talking at these 'chats' at least he still had them, right? It had been bloody uncomfortable to sit through them during the latter half of Martha's stay with him, though – and he suspected that most of that had probably been his fault, too. He'd known what was going on with her but had still steadfastly been refusing to acknowledge it, in the hope that ignoring it would mean it would go away without him having to make an issue out of it and therefore embarrass them both.

_Anyway._

"So there we were, after tea – I ate most of the cake, I seem to remember; banana cake, so you can't blame me for that – the two of us just sitting in her room, chatting about stuff. I could see she was having trouble staying awake – she had to hide the yawns from me more than once, and she wasn't terribly convincing either, bless her – but I wanted to make sure she wouldn't have nightmares, if I could. It hadn't been an exactly _pleasant_ afternoon."

"That was nice of you." All trace of humour was gone from Donna's voice now. "Reminds me of the time after we met the Ood; you spent ages with me after that, talking to me about nothing at all. It annoyed me at the time but afterwards I could see what you were doing; you were trying to distract me from what had happened, so I wouldn't dwell on it."

"_Exactly._"

He flashed a grin at her, pleased that she'd caught on so quickly to what he'd meant.

"Did it work with Rose?"

"I think so. It certainly didn't take long before she'd nodded off – why _do_ you humans call it the land of Nod, anyway? Still, never mind – and I went and found a blanket somewhere or other to drape over her to keep her warm. She always used to complain if she woke up feeling cold ..." He trailed off for a minute, caught up in a memory; when he turned to face Donna he was certain, if he looked anything like how he felt, the expression on it was haunted.

"I — I — I can't do this. I'm sorry, Donna, I _can't_."

He began to turn away, but stopped when she laid a hand on his arm.

"You _can_ ... you're making yourself ill with it, and how can you figure out a way to fix things — I know," she said, the timbre of her voice soft with sympathy, as he opened his mouth to tell her yet again of how it was impossible for him ever to see Rose again; "you said it was impossible. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But I'm willing to bet that she wouldn't want you to be so sad, for so long, just because she wasn't here."

"I told her to have a fantastic life." His voice was very quiet.

Donna squeezed his arm, no doubt trying to offer comfort.

"Of course you did, you couldn't have done anything else. And if it's OK for her to have that 'fantastic life', isn't it just as much OK for you to have the same?"

He couldn't fault her logic. The smile he gave her was small, but definitely there.

"What would I do without you, Donna?"

"Sometimes, I dread to think. Now, you were telling me about Rose; remember, it's a good thing to talk about her."

"There's not all that much more to tell. Not about that time I was telling you about, anyway … I sat there for a while in silence, just watching her breathe and thinking about how close I'd come, again, to losing her. I needed her so much, then. Still do, of course."

Donna said nothing, which was as well because right then he couldn't imagine there was anything she _could_ say that would make the constant ache for that woman-child he loved so much feel any better. He closed his eyes, swallowed visibly, and continued.

"I can remember leaning forward then, and gently brushing her hair back off her face so it wouldn't tickle her and wake her, and I tried to talk to her even though I knew she was asleep. At that time I could only get this sort of thing out when she was asleep, when she couldn't react or answer. Coward every time, me."

He opened his eyes, blinking back the tears that now threatened to spill over.

"Now I _know_ that's not true," Donna said gently.

"You think? I wouldn't be nearly as sure of that if I were you, Donna."

Donna blinked at him as she digested his comment.

"That's as may be – and you needn't think you're getting away without explaining that comment later, by the by – but we were talking about Rose."

The words were harsh but her tone was not; he knew that Donna had his best interests at heart and would tell him what others wouldn't. And it honestly felt good, even though it hurt, to be able to talk openly about Rose again. If he kept her memory alive by talking about her, some part of the Rose he loved so much would still be here with him even though she herself was for ever gone.

"I said to her how bad it was that I couldn't talk frankly to her when she was awake. And how if she felt for me – and I remember saying that I couldn't tell her how much I hoped she did – how I felt for her, then the actual words weren't necessary."

"That makes perfect sense to me."

"And then I said to her that if she _didn't_, then nothing I could possibly say would make the blindest bit of difference. It wasn't perfect, even then; I knew it wasn't the perfect way to have that conversation – one-sided conversations aren't ever any fun – but even I have faults."

Donna snorted; again, he chose to ignore it.

"I said to her that she'd never hear me admitting that where anybody else could hear me. I'd deny to you I ever said that if I thought I'd be able to get away with it."

"Not a chance, sunshine."

"I thought not." He grinned at her suddenly before sobering again.

"That was the last chance I got to tell her before she was taken from me, and I messed it up. Not as badly as I messed it up the last time, when I said good-b—"

His voice broke at that and he lost the battle with the tears he'd been fighting as they poured down his face. He felt Donna's hand move from his arm and ached at the loss of human contact before feeling her pull him into a hug. Wonderful Donna. The compassion she showed for others reminded him so much of Rose, which only made him weep all the harder; he felt her arms tighten around him as she tried to give him comfort.

"Cry it out," she said to him gently. "It's the only way. And it might even make you feel a bit better, although I can't of course promise you that."

And he clung to her and wept until he could weep no more. And oddly enough, even though the ache for Rose was still as present as ever it was, he _did_ feel better, at least a little.


End file.
